My friend asked me at dinner last night about our Christmas tree, “Did you graduate to a real tree or are do you still have a Charlie Brown tree?” For my entire adult life, qualifying adult as since I’ve lived on my own, I’ve had a small tree, probably less than two feet tall. I’ve always called this a Charlie tree, a nod to Charlie Brown, because I continually purchase the less beautiful tree on the lot. The little runty ones almost always speak to me.

This year, we no longer live in a small condo but in an actual house. I looked at the Charlie tree’s when visiting the lot earlier this week, and I felt a tug on my heartstrings. But we moved along to the five-foot section and found a tree there that is more to the scale of our room. We are decorating the tree tonight and I will admit that the size is nice. However, I could have been just as happy with a tiny, malformed tree.

This is who I am; I champion the underdog every time. Probably a trait I inherited from my mom, who is always speaking up for the other guy, with the other perspective, whatever that may be. In my case this applies to many things, Christmas trees, dogs, children, anytime I see something or someone not embraced off the bat I jump in.

I think it boils down to being drawn to the less obvious, attracted to the unusual. There is so much going on in this life, so many people living at one end of the volume scale or the other. But there are a million things to see in the subtle, in the less obvious. That’s where the interesting part of life is happening.

One of my closest friends has recently started dating someone. We have both gone through years of daters and serious boyfriends. The difference for her this time is that this guy is the real deal. He is someone that she really interested in, someone she can see herself with.

This guy has potential, and it is scaring the shit out of my friend. Any woman reading this will understand. There are guys you date and get involved with that you know, somewhere deep down inside, will never go anywhere. And somehow that seems safe. You can enjoy the romance without really having to bare anything.

And then there are the guys that have potential. It is these men who strike fear in your heart in the early days of dating. These men typically have their shit together, they have their own lives and they are coming at you whole. For us women who have dated the available but not really available, these men are terrifying.

My friend sent me a virtual fist bump yesterday via text. The bump was props to me and mine for being in a relationship, for putting it on the line and for keeping it all going. I assured her that she too would get used to the feeling of being emotionally uncomfortable on a daily basis. I shared my perspective which is that good relationships are one contradiction after another. Awesome and horrible. Pure joy and absolute misery. Like riding a crazy roller coaster with unexpected turns while wearing a blindfold.

 

This is what I told my writing coach today. I sat right down on her sofa and verbally unloaded all the latest information in my head about my life, about writing.

I told her, I am stuck, full-fledged writers block, and it is miserable. I try to write but can only get a few sentences down because I find myself so terribly boring. I don’t want to hear what’s going on in my head, I hear myself all the time and wish I could change the channel. I asked her, “Why would anyone want to be a writer. This must not be a choice, who would want to do this? Writing is torture.”

It made me realize that this desire to write that I’ve had as long as I can remember, since my fledgling work on Cheerios before I was 10, this is not a choice. This drive is built in, hardwired into my psyche. Because who would choose this?

My hope is that one day I can birth something interesting. That one day I’ll be able to get down on paper something that is befitting the decades of working and wishing. But I’m fairly certain that even if this happens I may still feel like a writer, shitty and hopeful at once.

At the CREW Convention last week, I realized that I had a hard time sitting and listening to speakers for any length of time. I found myself settling in to the uncomfortable hotel chairs, listening intently for about one minute tops, before I felt the pull to reach down and check my phone. This happened over and over until I put it together on day two, I think I may have shortened my attention span with my smart phone.

Another recent observation about new behavior that isn’t all that positive is how I use Netflix and Amazon Prime instant viewing. I am a lifelong opponent of having a TV in my bedroom. I think it can cause a variety of problems. Yet somehow, in the last few years, my husband and I have become Netflix, binge watching junkies. We crawl into bed, kiss and roll over to our selected Netflix viewing positions and watch until we pass out. This may have evolved post child as a way to grab just a bit of time for us each day. We used to get our TV watching done together on the sofa, but with a toddler this doesn’t happen.

One final symptom of my broken brain is reading. I love to read and am a fiction reader. The joy of burying myself in another world by opening the pages of a book is a long time pleasure. But lately I’ve had trouble not only picking out books, but also focusing on them. Nothing is grabbing me and after four or five books I have to concede that the problem may not be my choices, but my miniscule attention span.

I’m among the masses that are likely experiencing this problem. I’ve seen articles about studies done on how the smart phone is rewiring our brain. It doesn’t sound like we’re headed in a pleasant direction. I think I’m going to stage my own revolution. Last night we tried to go technology free in the bedroom. I realized when I woke at 1:30 am and couldn’t fall back asleep without the phone that the problem is greater than I imagined. So I will allow myself a withdrawal of some type, with the goal of being phone free in bed within the week.

And the copy of The Martian that I just picked up, I will read that in less than six months. Even better, how about I read it within the month.

This sounds frustrating already. But I’d like my ability to focus back so I’ll fight the good fight. Technology is my friend, at certain times. The rest of the time, I’m going to re-enter the real world.

 

 

 

 

My writing coach is awesome. I knew from the first time I met The Sexy Grammarian (aka Kristy Lin Billuni) that she was special. She was able to listen to my dream of being a writer, talk about my fears and hopes and then distill back to me an approach that worked for my overly disciplined, creatively stifled mind.

A few weeks ago, during one of our Facetime coaching sessions, she said something that both inspired me and delivered a swift, firm kick in the ass. She said, “Tara, I have a few clients I think of as can’t fail clients. These are clients that, in my mind, will succeed. You are one of my can’t fail clients.” She went on to say, “And, it is so odd, but you are my only can’t fail client that doesn’t do what I tell them to do.”

I laughed out loud. She got me. I am notorious for dreaming big, in my head. The distance between thinking and doing is often impossibly vast, so while I am writing and working on goals, I often stall out and continue the dreaming at the same time that I cease the effort.

Her feedback was perhaps the most galvanizing experience I’ve had of late. And her words will stick with me. Nearly every day since I have been writing, even when I hate what is coming out, I am doing it. I am honored to be thought of as a can’t fail client, I don’t want to do that title a disservice. And frankly, I do well with ass kicking women, they are my favorite types of people, and Kristi delivered a very successful kick in the ass.